


Someone Else's Now

by aldiara



Category: Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: Angry Sex, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Canon, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't like he doubted Alec's feelings, not truly. Sometimes, though – like now, when the whole world was already in turmoil and devotion of any kind too risky a gamble – he wasn't certain that he could be certain of anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Else's Now

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Contains angry sex with initial misgivings - it's rough-but-consensual in my book but some might consider this dub-con. Enormous thanks as ever to the lovely Alsha for her speedy and insightful beta job (and for putting up with my shameless butchery of Forster's style, lol) <3
> 
> ~

Maurice imagined sometimes – more frequently than he might have liked to own to – himself explaining to those he’d left behind the manner of difficulties he encountered in his new life. He tried to picture how he would have apprised people like his mother, Dr Barry, or Kitty (sometimes, in his more reckless moments, even Clive), of his efficacy in dealing with these difficulties; always more smoothly, in his mind, than his bumbling manner could have hoped to contrive in reality. “Oh, money, tosh,” he would envision himself saying, with a negligent wave, “money will come to a gentleman as long as he makes no gross attempt at pursuing it,” all the while far too conscious of how acute a concern money had of late become.

There was, however, no situation in which he could fancy himself explaining – to anyone of his acquaintance or otherwise – the sheer novelty of feeling jealous. Not in the way that he’d once fancied himself jealous of Kitty over Clive, but in a strange, new, visceral way. It far surpassed those high ideals he’d once held of how there was offence to be found in some flippant discourse or philosophical discussion Clive chose to hold with someone other than him, thus stealing away precious minutes that he, Maurice, might have used to gather Clive’s animated gaze and the intricate gesturing of his hands onto himself.

How different, then, was this: a harbour tavern in Southampton on a late summer night, a sailor’s hand resting too long on Alec’s back, and too near his hip, while the man’s whiskered face leaned close, murmuring some joke or instruction into Alec’s ear with a far too familiar grin twisting his lips.

Alec smiled easily, replying with some rough jest surely appropriate to the offer given, but all Maurice could perceive was the fact that he did smile, and his insides turned to red-hot turmoil; a world of difference from that genteel sense of distraction Clive had once inspired. Across the crowded room, he sought to catch Alec’s gaze, but his friend was by now in animated discussion with the other fellows at the table, and Maurice was left to nurse his pint and his grudge. He attempted for a bit to distract himself with the paper he'd obtained from the publican, but it was full of talk of the Triple Entente and the likelihood of war, and only soured his mood further. 

He was well into another pint by the time Alec finally returned, triumphantly slamming his hand down on the bar by Maurice's elbow. "The ferry's sorted for tomorrow," he announced, adding proudly, "and what's better, for half-price. That fellow's cousins with the postmaster's wife at Newport, so he reckons it can hurt nought to stay in her good graces and cut us a deal."

Maurice made some affirmative noise but did not otherwise engage, not even when Alec talked on about the work awaiting them – the harbour master's accounts for Maurice, the postmaster's general assistance for Alec – and the cottage they were going to rent. Instead, he kept an eye on the man who'd promised Alec the reduced ferry rate. On second glance, there was a certain rough attractiveness about him, despite his worn clothes and unkempt appearance, and Maurice's mood grew fouler still; he'd have preferred him to be ugly.

The sailor noticed him looking, or more likely was looking of his own accord, openly appraising the tight fit of Alec's trousers from behind. When his eye caught Maurice's glare, he did not flush or look away but grinned at him slowly, a horrid, reprehensible grin that held entirely too much knowledge. 

Abruptly, Maurice set down his empty glass and stood. "Let's go for a walk. The stink in here's the limit."

Alec frowned at him, for Maurice had cut him off mid-sentence. "Now? It's late, and the ferry's to leave early." He smirked, dropping his voice. "At any rate, I reckon the beds smell nicer."

But Maurice, too restless to be lured by the prospect of sleep or even anything that might precede sleep, insisted, and Alec, exuberant still with the new prospects of the morning, agreed easily enough.

He'd hoped the fresh air off the sea might clear his gloomy thoughts a bit, but that proved quickly to be a futile notion, for though the breeze was stiff tonight, it carried with it not merely the salty tang off the Channel, but also the inevitable bouquet of harbour smells, from rotting fish and other offal to various miasmas of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume. 

Not far from the pub, they came across a purveyor of one such fragrant cloud, and obviously other services, for she loitered near the turn to an alleyway and wore a loudly dyed dress with no kerchief. A fairly unmistakeable offer reached their ears as they strolled by. Maurice, embarrassed, stared hard in the opposite direction, but Alec turned and gave a friendly decline, even going so far as to tip his cap at the girl. 

"Cheers, darlin', but a good night to you all the same."

The woman laughed and dropped a mock curtsey in return. "Well if ye change yer mind, handsome, feel free to come back later. Alone or with yer prissy friend is all the same to me." 

The encounter, brief though it was, reignited the troublesome spark Maurice had been trying so hard to quench. The truth was girls were forever looking at Alec, and sometimes more than looking. It did not as a rule bother him, for Alec never responded with any more than a friendly jest. Tonight, though, it caught him in a bad way. He was always somewhat nervous when they moved jobs or places, being by and large a creature of habit; on top of that, and the exchange with the sailor, his mind's response to the woman's offer and Alec's reply was of the blackest kind. Moving never failed to remind him in the clearest terms how uncertain was this rootless existence they had chosen: a constant up and about and scrambling for another job, another place, only for long enough not to raise suspicion, all just so they could be together. Besides, he couldn't help at times like this but wonder about the conversation they'd had back in the early days, when Alec had carelessly bragged he could have a kid tomorrow if he wanted. It was one thing to have his lover ogled by the occasional too-brash fellow who shared his own predilections – but to know that if he chose, it would be an easy thing for Alec to give up this unstable existence and settle to what might be expected of a healthy young man his age, was quite another.

_But you're mine, mine_ , his whole being raged against the idea. It wasn't like he doubted Alec's feelings, not truly. Sometimes, though – like now, when the whole world was already in turmoil and devotion of any kind too risky a gamble – he wasn't certain that he could be certain of anything.

"You shouldn't have spoken to that woman, you know," he interrupted whatever Alec had been saying. "She'll think you truly will be coming back, now."

Alec looked at him from the side, surprised by the harsh tone and perhaps a little irritated at being cut off twice in short succession. "Wot, the harbour wench? Nah, I was but being friendly. She took my meaning well enough."

"If you say so. You're more the expert in such matters," said Maurice curtly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, never you mind."

"Maurice, whatever is the matter?” Alec enquired, with more than a hint of exasperation, and sped up enough so he could turn and walk backwards, catching and holding Maurice's eye. “We’ve passage to the Isle of Wight for far less than we reckon’d, and what’s more, easy work to last us more than two months. Why are you cross?”

“Oh, easy work, is it!” Maurice flared suddenly, and took a certain grim satisfaction in seeing Alec's dark eyes fly wide with surprise. "I suppose you could find easier work right here in this harbour, the way you cavort and flirt with everything in skirts – or trousers."

"What?" asked Alec blankly, but Maurice was already plunging heedlessly on.

"I'm sure if you'd carried on teasing a little longer, that sailor could've been persuaded to let you cross for just a handjob. Perhaps you should turn back and take up station right next to 'that harbour wench', I'm sure she'd be ever so pleased to share the work space."

He knew on the instant that he'd gone too far, but it was too late to recall his words. Illuminated by the grimy light of a nearby streetlamp, a flash of purest rage crossed Alec's face. He moved so fast that Maurice failed utterly to react when his arm was gripped and the whole of him yanked off the street, into the dank shadows of an alleyway not too unlike the one Maurice had referred to. 

Before he could so much as raise a finger to defend himself, Alec had flung him around and pressed him face forward against a rough brick wall, crowding in behind him so he'd no escape.

"Why ye rotten uppity prick," snarled Alec, and there was not an ounce of his customary affectionate tease in his voice when he pushed against Maurice's back, hands circling his wrists and pinning them against the wall either side of his face. "Call me a whore to my face, would you? I talked to that oaf to get us passage – so you and I would have an easier start at Newport, d'ye hear me? You and I!"

"I didn't mean… it was but talk," Maurice retorted, half angry, half guilty, but Alec was not in the least appeased.

"Fuck your talk!" He shoved him forwards hard enough Maurice felt the brick scrape his ear. "Who gives a fuck if I smile at anyone, or greet a gal of a cold evening? Whose side do I walk by, talk by, work by? Whose bed am I in?"

"Mine," he managed, struggling futilely against the harsh grip. 

"That's right. Yours. And _mine_ ," Alec growled, accentuating each word with another slam against the wall. "You hypocritical arse – griping at _me_ about looking at people? When every other day I have to watch some stupid little paper boy or coach driver giving you the eye, pretending to be cadging for tips when really they's cadging for somewhat quite different – and yourself ever the magnanimous gentleman, ain't yer, all _ho there, my man_ and _if I could trouble you for my effects, there's a jolly lad_ -"

"I never-" protested Maurice, quite out of breath, for he had not ceased his quarrelling against Alec's grip, though nor had Alec given him the slightest quarter. 

"Don't," hissed Alec furiously, lips close to Maurice's ear so that he shuddered, "don't you dare pretend to me you don't notice. And don't you doubly dare pretend you don't enjoy it, neither."

Maurice was quite alarmed; he was well accustomed to (and rather welcomed) that at times Alec liked to play physically rough, but there was a real fury in him now that was different, brimming and rolling against him. There was no way to escape it, held fast as he was between Alec's body and the alley wall. To his alarm, too, he felt he wasn't entirely sure whether he did wish to escape it. From the first, he'd found Alec's lack of pretence – in bed or elsewhere – a welcome change from the stiflingly proper companionship he'd previously tended; though cautious at first, he'd moved towards unsure approval, then full delight once he'd realised the wildness of Alec's manner was tempered by genuine affection. And though he did not now relish the prospect of a physical fight, still there was in him something that appreciated the rawness of Alec's response to this, and to the world in general: how he would fume and shove and voice his fury rather than stand back, politely and coldly offended, ever out of reach.

He'd enough experience from the boxing sessions at the mission, and plenty of rough encounters since they'd left Penge, that he knew he could probably break free if he but fought hard enough, but he had no wish to fight Alec, not like this. It was as though by blurting his ugly thoughts, the underlying cause had ebbed like an ugly boil lanced, its poisons flowing elsewhere, while Alec now was at the height of rage. Maurice drew a breath and forced himself to still in his lover's grip.

"Alec, I was a prat." Already his crass outburst filled him with horror, not for the crassness or the stupid fears only he knew, but for the form it had taken. "Let's not carry on so – I know you're mine."

Alec, meanwhile, was not so easily placated, and did not let go, either. "And you're mine," he reiterated with great force, pressing himself against Maurice's back. "Perhaps it's _that_ you need reminding of."

"Don't be silly." He only meant that Alec had not a thing to worry about, but Alec didn't take it well.

"Silly, am I? You _are_ mine, and I can make you certain of it."

"Alec-"

But there was a shift now in the anger between them, the threat of violence transformed he knew not when or how; suddenly he felt Alec's lips burning a hot trail against his neck and Alec's hips flush against his backside with no attempt to disguise what sort of demonstration Alec had in mind. He caught his breath when Alec slowly ground his hips, letting him feel how hard he was; again his mouth formed his lover's name, and he responded without meaning to, bucking against the pressure.

"I like the way you say my name," Alec murmured into his ear, still angry but more controlled now, repeating the slow, circular grind until Maurice swelled in his britches, "all posh like that. I wonder if it'll still sound so posh when I make you scream it, right here – when I fuck you against this dirty alley wall, just like a common harbour whore?"

Maurice made a noise of protest that came out, in truth, a lot less sincere than he'd meant it to. There was something sordid and abhorrent about what Alec was proposing – the mouth of the alley was not five steps away, where anyone could pass, any moment – but his body did not seem to find it so. Again he pushed back against Alec's hips, meeting the other's thrust halfway. Abruptly his wrists were released as Alec's hands dropped to his waist instead, one pulling his shirt out of his trousers and the other fumbling with his fly. 

"Alec, we can't… the constable might-"

"Fuck the constable," Alec muttered, still sounding thoroughly pissed off. His left hand had succeeded in finding its way inside of Maurice's shirt, and he shuddered when the calloused fingers scraped up his stomach, setting his skin aflame wherever they touched. 

He surprised them both by responding, "Please don't – I doubt he'd find it half as diverting as would I."

Alec paused in his rough explorations, caught off guard by the dry jest. At long length, there was a snort of laughter against Maurice's ear, and when he shoved a knee between Maurice's thighs, it was more of a teasing slide than an intrusion. 

"Diverting, am I, then?" His arm firmly circled Maurice's chest, his fingers brushing the point of a nipple, and Maurice instinctively turned his head as far as it would go, murmuring, "Oh, very" before meeting Alec's lips in a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss. 

Alec's other hand had finally succeeded in fumbling open his trousers, and he moaned deeply when Alec's heated palm closed firmly about his cock, pulling it free from his undergarments. He could not even gather his wits for a protest in earnest, for Alec gave him no chance to; immediately he commenced a hard, tight-fisted wank that had Maurice buckling slightly in the knees, suddenly grateful for the support of the brick wall. Dimly it occurred to him that he ought to be outraged, disgusted even; but like with so many times with Alec, what was between them knitted them so tightly there was no room left for shame. 

Instead of fighting back, he helped instead, shoving down his own trousers as Alec briefly paused to undo his own; instead of indignant protestations, he moaned with pleasure as he felt Alec's throbbing length against his backside, rutting shamelessly against his bare cheeks. 

"You like this," Alec muttered, no longer steady-voiced, while he wanked Maurice quick and hard, palm growing slick as Maurice leaked helplessly in anticipation of fulfilled pleasure, "fuck's sake, you really like this, don't yer?"

"Shut up," Maurice panted back, and then had no more opportunity to retort, for Alec ceased stroking his chest and slipped two fingers between Maurice's lips instead, filling his mouth with the familiar taste of his skin, salty as the sea. He sucked on them readily, slipping his tongue between them, lost in the sensation of the rough grip on his cock driving him mad. Alec ground steadily against his arse without quite penetrating yet, fingers curling demandingly in Maurice's mouth. Gone were all thoughts of propriety; the shadowed alleyway around them was as welcome a shelter as would have been a curtained alcove in a sultan's perfumed palace. How odd and primitive, the tatters honest lust could draw upon itself into a garment of reassurance.

When Alec's fingers withdrew from his mouth, dripping and wet, Maurice shuffled his legs apart without being asked to, as far as they would go with his trousers holding his ankles fast. He hummed deep in his throat when Alec thrust those fingers inside him, not bothering to go slow; it burned, but he relaxed easily into the intimate touch, delighting in the slick caress. He'd barely settled to enjoy it, though, when the fingers were withdrawn again. When he heard the sound of spitting, he was too far gone to think it vulgar; usually there was some oil or other they found easy enough to obtain, but right now he could not have cared less what it took as long as it gained him this: the hot gust of Alec's breath against his nape, his right hand faltering momentarily on Maurice's cock as he pushed his way inside him, throbbing and thick. There was more pain at the meagreness of preparation, but it did not last, and in defiance Maurice arched his back, shoved back with all his might and relished the ragged stutter in Alec's voice as he mouthed his name and pushed forward in response, filling him utterly.

What followed was delirium, a rapid, slick rhythm quickly established, Alec's fingers tight about his twitching prick. Alec’s hips snapped back and forth, fucking him as he had threatened, up against some rough alley wall like some rough alley whore, and he did not even mind. At some point he was vaguely aware of motion past the alley's mouth, a titter and a deeper laugh, a stranger's voice saying disparagingly, "Eh, only a pair of sodomites," but even that could not deter him.

"Alec," he breathed desperately into the second-long breaks between thrusts, "Alec, sweet boy, I can't hold out, I must-" and found not the wherewithal to even finish his sentence; on the next hard plunge he cried out – not a name, nor any word, just mindless guttural vocalisation – and shuddered forward into Alec's squeezing hand, splattering warm spunk against the wall that held him upright. Alec gasped out a curse as Maurice’s arse clenched and released in rapid succession; he forced another few rough thrusts, cock already twitching, and then Maurice, dazed and boneless, felt warmth gushing inside him and then trickling slowly down his thighs.

They stood for long moments, leaning forward with nothing to hold them upright but the brick wall. Maurice felt a slight breeze cool the hot sweat at his nape, perceived again the less than savoury harbour smells, along with the sticky heat of Alec draped against his back; remembered, even, the idle passers-by who had seen or heard them or both. If ever there was a time to be repulsed by his own nature, he supposed it was now. Instead, he only felt languid and sated, drowsily content and unable to summon the energy required for moral outrage. 

Presently the weight against him stirred. "Oh lord, I've made a mess of us." There was remorse in Alec's voice but Maurice felt curiously lightened, as if he'd only heard about the concept of shame by hear-say. "Morrie, are you-"

"I'm fine," he muttered, somehow mustering the strength to roll in his lover's arms and brace his back against the sticky wall so they were face to face. Alec looked both abashed and deliciously wicked, his cap long fallen off, his curls messed up by the breeze and the exertion. His lips hung open, breathing hard, and Maurice could not help the impulse to lean forward and kiss them, slipping his tongue between and delighting in the wet breathless warmth of Alec's mouth.

"I did not mean-" Alec muttered ruefully when the kiss ended, but Maurice cut him short, placing small kisses against his lips, his nose, his temples, his eyelids. 

"Hush, I said I'm fine. In case you missed it, I thoroughly enjoyed myself." He smiled to prove it, and the worried lines in Alec's flushed face eased somewhat.

A frown remained, though. "Maurice, what you said…"

"I'm sorry, boy, I am so sorry." He wrapped his arms around Alec's neck, buried his nose in the damp curls. "It was wretchedly foul of me. I wasn't worried that you'd go astray, not truly, and I hope you'd not think the same of me."

He felt Alec trying to pry him loose so he could look into his face, and hung on only stronger. Alec's grip relaxed. "I didn't, no, but Maurice, I'm no fool. There's something on your mind. There's been for weeks. I know you. If it's the girls-"

He paused, leaving the sentence open, and Maurice sighed, feeling half foolish, half relieved that he'd not been nearly so successful in being secretive as he thought. 

"It's not the girls," he said slowly, still hanging tight to Alec's neck. He did not think he could say any of this with Alec's earnest gaze trained on his face. "Or not the chaps, neither – of course they'd look at you. They'd be fools not to. No, it's everything. The lives we lead. The uncertainty. Every day I'm not sure how we'll make a living through another month, and every day I worry about that one or that one, looking at us all sideways, or too long, and every time I wonder, _did they guess?_ And now the papers full of talk of war, every day, and when it comes, we'll be a part of it, whether we will or we don't." He paused, inhaling deeply of the beloved's familiar scent. "I don't want to lose you. I can't bear the thought of it."

There was a long silence, in which Alec's hands tightened round his waist. "Moz, this is folly. You can't know what's to come, nor how to guard against it. Today's all we have, this day and every day to come."

"I know," he said, hanging on blindly, although he _didn't_ know, not the way that Alec did, shrugging and facing the future as though it didn't casually juggle calamity with bliss. "I know. Just let me hold you, now, only a little longer."

Alec did, and in silence held him in return.

Later, they helped each other get their clothes back in order, buttoning up each other's trousers and shirts, straightening each other's collars without speaking. Somewhere up the road, the night-watchman passed by, crying the hour; it was midnight, a new and unfamiliar day begun, and yet Maurice felt a rare sense of peace as he set the wrinkled cap straight on Alec's tangled curls.

There was no way, he thought when they left the alley – not touching now, but shoulder to shoulder – that he could ever have explained this askew sense of belonging to Clive, or any of the people that he'd left behind, who dwelt with such assurance in their world of beautiful conventions; who need never face the fear that any day they woke to might be the last of the life they'd chosen in defiance of the world. Still, for the moment, that might be alright. There were only two people who mattered now, and neither had need of explanations.


End file.
